


Learn to Blend

by track_04



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Crack, Gen, Juice is serious business, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 09:56:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21159773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/track_04/pseuds/track_04
Summary: The story of an assassin, hisblenderjuicer, and all the people they inconvenience, confuse, and annoy along the way.





	Learn to Blend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asuralucier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/gifts).

The view of a city, as seen through a window on the fifty-second floor of a rundown, half-abandoned office building, was something that Marcus had learned to enjoy.

Get him down on the ground in an unfamiliar city and he'd have no problem navigating the streets, winding his way through the daytime crowds in his worn, unremarkable jacket, wearing clothes underneath that were always just a bit too nice to be called nondescript. It was easy to blend in, make himself a part of whatever place he was in; he'd smile at the shop clerk as he picked up a souvenir to take home with him, eat at a few restaurants that managed to catch his eye, and walk down unfamiliar sidewalks like he'd known them all his life. And at the end of the day, when he was tired of pretending to be part of a city that wasn't his, he'd fall asleep in a bed that didn't belong to him, looking forward to his return home.

Up here, though, in this room with its cheap industrial carpeting, faded around the edges of the places where office furniture had once stood, he was at home. The quiet hum of the air conditioning and the view of the city stretched out below him, open wide to show him all its secrets, was as much a part of him as his guns and his house and the jagged scar on his right hip that he refused to talk about. 

There was a part of him that craved the quiet of these moments spent in high, lonely places, observing the last days in the life of someone who would never know he'd been there.

And there was another part of himself--one that he chose to ignore in favor of the promise of money--that found it boring as hell.

A day or even three of this watching and waiting he could handle; anything more than that and an itch started beneath his skin. It was partially from the tense inactivity of waiting for the perfect moment to finish the job, and partially from the things sitting in a cheap office chair for twelve hours a day did to his back. 

Mostly, though, it was because the food on long surveillance jobs was horrible. He always blew through whatever meagre amount of fresh fruit and yogurt he'd brought along in his cooler within the first few days, leaving him nothing but bottled water and granola and whatever protein bars he could stand to choke down. His current job had reached its tenth day, and he was starting to wish he'd brought John along with him, just so he had a distraction from his cravings for something that wasn't bland, over-processed bullshit. 

Then again, seeing John--whose taste buds had been killed years ago through a steady diet of day-old sandwiches and gas station coffee--all-too-happily eating protein bars and drinking tap water might not have been good for his patience. Or his sanity.

Across the street, his target returned from his run, offering a welcome distraction from his musings about John and food; The man's t-shirt was soaked through and his cheeks were red from the wind, but his hair remained as artfully mussed as it had been when he'd left the apartment. Marcus wondered if he'd stopped to fix it after his run, or if his whatever he used to style it was just that good. Given what he'd seen of the guy, both options stood a fifty-fifty chance of being the truth.

"Like I said, they're never going to know," the target said, reaching up to adjust his bluetooth as he left his shoes in a pile by the door and moved toward his kitchen. "They've got more money than god. What's a hundred thousand here and there to them? Nothing. That's probably their monthly budget for those ugly fucking suits that they wear."

Marcus moved to his rifle, carefully assembled and positioned the night before, muzzle resting against the edge of the hole he'd cut in the window's glass. He felt a sense of calm wash over him as he arranged himself behind it and leaned in, closing one eye as he sighted the target through its scope. He listened as the man moved around his apartment, opening cabinets and drawers, gathering the things he needed for a task he'd never finish; the mundanity of it was almost soothing.

"I'm telling you, we're golden. A few more months and we can sail off into the sunset and live out the rest of our days in the Carribean." The target took a carrot from the pile of vegetables laid out on the counter and fed it into the top of an appliance that looked like the love child of a blender and a food processor, a strangely sleek hybrid shaped out of plastic and chrome. "Nothing to worry about."

Marcus shifted his grip on his gun and tried not to pay attention to the vegetables as they disappeared from the counter top, one by one, or think of how much better they would have tasted than the protein bars in his bag; his earpiece hummed as the target fed each one through the machine, the low, electronic grind drowning out all other sound. He waited until a single carrot was left on the counter, breathed out slowly, and pulled the trigger. 

The target crumpled to the floor and the noise stopped, replaced by his panicked breathing.

Marcus swore quietly, adjusting the rifle as he scanned the room; he searched for an angle for a second shot, but the target had managed to drag himself behind his kitchen island and out of his line of sight before he could fire again. Through the earpiece, he could hear the man start making desperate offers to buy out the contract against him.

Marcus gave a tired sigh and stood, tucked a gun into his shoulder holster, and calmly put on his jacket. He stopped on his way out the door and slipped a pair of gloves into his pocket, then made his way across the street.

The apartment was quiet as he stepped inside, the target having given up on pleading for his life sometime during the walk over. Marcus hung his jacket on a hook beside the door, half-hoping that he'd bled out before he arrived; it would save him the cost or trouble of an extra bullet, and let him add this to his list of single shot jobs.

Luck didn't seem to be on his side, though, and the target was still alive when he stepped into the kitchen. Alive and almost comically surprised to see a man standing in the doorway holding a gun, given the events of the past few minutes. And the fact that he'd stolen several million dollars from the Russian mob. "Look--I don't know what they're paying you, but I'll double it."

"Some things are about more than money." Marcus looked down at the target huddled on the floor with his hands pressed against his stomach, blood soaking through the front of his shirt, staining his fingers. He still had his earpiece in, and Marcus wondered if the person he'd been talking to was still on the other end of the call, or if he'd had the sense to hang up and run when he realized what was happening. "Sure, I could take your money and let you go, but then they find out I let you off and where does that leave me? No one's going to hire an assassin with a reputation for being unreliable."

"I'll triple it, then--"

"What is this, exactly? Not a blender, I'm assuming," Marcus cut him off, motioning at the appliance in question.

The man blinked up at him. "...it's a juicer."

"Makes sense." Marcus reached for the glass of greyish-brown juice resting on the counter, lifting it and examining its contents carefully before he took a sip. He let it roll around on his tongue, considering, and then made a sound of approval. "Not bad. Does this make any type of juice you want?"

"Yes? It's a juicer."

Marcus took another swig from the glass and stared at the juicer thoughtfully. "You know, I've been looking to replace my blender, but I think I might just go for one of these instead. Better mouthfeel than anything my blender can manage. How much did this set you back?"

The man frowned. "Six hundred."

Marcus whistled. "This the high end model?"

"I--yeah, I think so? I just bought the one they recommended at the store." He shifted against the cabinets, grimacing. "Look, you can just have that one if you want it. Just take it with you and leave me here--"

"Are you kidding? Getting this through airport security would be a nightmare." Marcus set the now half-full glass back on the counter. "I don't like to make unnecessary trouble for myself. Sorry."

"Does that mean you're going to kill me?"

"Obviously. I don't really do things halfway, and, well," Marcus said, motioning to the hole in the man's stomach. "I appreciate the advice, though. I think I'm going to have to get one of these for myself."

"So glad I could help," the man said.

For perhaps the first time in his life, Marcus didn't mind having to use a second bullet.

\--

"Are you going to take the Andretti contract?" John stood awkwardly next to the counter in Marcus's kitchen, eyeing the vegetables piled on the counter warily.

Marcus was standing a few feet away in his bathrobe, feeding carrots into the top of his weird-looking blender with an intensity that he usually reserved for surveillance of high dollar targets and scaring the shit out of Viggo's newest recruits. "Probably. Pay's decent and Palermo is nice this time of year." 

John crossed his arms over his chest, increasingly horrified as he watched Marcus pick up something green and leafy and wholly unappetizing and fed it through the blender. "Viggo won't be happy with you giving the Sicilians a hand." 

"He'll get over it once he realizes that all the other snipers-for-hire currently available are terrible at their jobs." Marcus shrugged, unconcerned, and picked up something that vaguely resembled a turnip. Yellow-white juice poured out of the machine as it disappeared down the chute and John made a face; he was saved from seeing just how much juice something that probably wasn't a turnip could produce when it caught halfway into the chute, stopping with a loud clunk followed by the sound of metal grinding against metal. 

Marcus swore. "You've got to be kidding--"

John kept his expression carefully neutral as he watched Marcus turn the machine off and start to pull it apart, leaving the top with the still-trapped piece of pseudo-turnip on the counter as he lifted the base to inspect it. He prodded it with his finger. "Come take a look at this for me."

"...why?"

"You own a muscle car. People who own those kind of cars are supposed to know about mechanical bullshit." Marcus gestured at the pieces scattered across the countertop, like that made what he was saying make any more sense. "You should be able to tell me what's wrong."

John frowned. "I pay someone to fix my car if it needs it."

Marcus scowled and set the base against the counter more gently than it probably warranted, and turned to face John. "How many small appliance repairmen do you know of?"

"None? But I don't have a blender."

"It's a juicer. Not a blender."

"I still don't know anyone who can fix it."

"What about your car guy? He can probably do small appliances, too, right?"

"I don't think he's really into that." John tried to imagine Aurelio's reaction to someone asking him to fix something that looked at the very least _looked_ like a blender, came up blank. It was impossible to imagine. It was too ridiculous. "Can't you just buy a new one?"

"I paid six hundred dollars for this. I expect it to last."

"You paid six hundred dollars for a blender?"

"It's a juicer."

"And you paid six hundred dollars for it."

"Some of us actually spend our money on things that aren't more guns, John."

"I bought a car."

"Not a good one." Marcus tapped a finger against the edge of the counter. "You should give me the name of your car guy. I'll ask him myself."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because we're friends," Marcus said, the way he said the word "friends" making it sound like equal parts threat and question.

John sat in silence, trying to decide which was worse: making this Aurelio's problem or having Marcus spend the next six months giving him the silent treatment over something that apparently wasn't a blender. The fact that the second option didn't involve Marcus forcing grass-flavored smoothies on him on a semi-regular basis had a certain appeal. 

John stopped and let himself consider it. It didn't sound that bad.

Until he thought about the jobs that they'd probably end up working together within that time, and how Marcus would definitely spend them giving him the silent treatment. Bad enough, being stuck in an empty room or on a rooftop for days on end, waiting; no need to make it worse.

John sighed. "Aurelio."

"Thank you." Marcus smiled, then moved to pull two glasses down from the cupboard, dividing the juice that he'd managed to make before his not-blender broke between them. "I'm sure he'll have Florence fixed up for me in no time."

"Florence?"

Marcus patted the base of the machine almost lovingly, then handed John one of the glasses. "Yeah, I named her Florence."

John reluctantly accepted the glass and gave Marcus a blank look. "You named your blender Florence?"

"My juicer. And yes. Is there something wrong with that?"

"It's an appliance."

"And I use it every day. Of course I gave it a name." Marcus stared back at him. "People name their cars. I don't see why this is any stranger than that."

"I didn't name my car."

"Then what do you call it?"

"Car."

Marcus sighed. "I worry about you sometimes."

\--

"You Aurelio?"

Aurelio ducked out from beneath the hood of the car he was inspecting, expression a mixture of suspicion and affability as he turned to face the stranger standing a few feet away from him. The way he held himself made it clear he was a referral and not some civilian who'd managed to find his way through the front-facing office and into the back of the shop by accident. He stared at Aurelio with an intensity that might have made him uncomfortable, despite his years of experience with the Russian mob's best and brightest, if not for the fact that he was holding what looked like a blender.

It was too fucking strange to be intimidating.

"At your service." Aurelio nodded, not bothering to extend his hand. "And who are you?"

"Marcus." The man nodded back, hands locked tight around the blender's base. 

"Marcus? You work for Viggo, right?"

"Sometimes." 

"You're here on business, then?"

The man shook his head. "Purely personal. I have a job I was hoping you could do. You came highly recommended."

Aurelio didn't argue. False modesty was a waste of everyone's time. "Viggo been talking me up again?"

"No. John Wick."

Aurelio smiled, the expression genuine. "If John recommended me, it must be a doozy. He knows how to keep it interesting."

"To put it lightly."

"Well, then, what exactly do you need done? Body work, engine work, restoration, upgrades, total rebuild?" Aurelio gave him a shrewd look. "If you're anything like John, I'm going to guess all of the above."

"Just a bit of engine work."

"Easy enough. You bring the car with you?"

"Not a car. Just having a bit of an issue with Florence's motor," Marcus said, voice deadpan as he offered the blender to Aurelio. "John thought you might be able to help me out."

Aurelio looked at Marcus, then the blender, then back at Marcus again, his smile growing more and more uncomfortable. He glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see his men grinning back at him and trying not to laugh, in on the joke.

Instead, all he saw was Carl and Danny watching from a few feet away, looking about as confused as he felt.

He turned back to face Marcus and cleared his throat. "...you want me to do work on your blender?"

"It's a juicer."

"You want me to do work on your juicer? Whatever the hell that is."

"It makes juice," Marcus said, expression way too serious for the conversation they were currently having. "And yes, I do."

"You know this is a body shop, right? We work on cars here. Sometimes bikes, if I'm feeling generous. Not whatever random small household appliance somebody feels like bringing in."

"What, you can fix cars, but juicers are too complicated for you?"

"Of course not." Aurelio stood a little straighter. "We've just got a reputation to uphold."

Marcus snorted, slipping a hand into his pocket. He pulled it out again, two coins caught between his thumb and forefinger. "I'll make it worth your while. And the hit to your reputation."

Aurelio eyed the coins. "John really gave you my name?"

"He tried to hold out on me, if it makes you feel better."

"It does, actually." 

Marcus gave him a wry look. "So, is that a yes?"

"That depends. You gonna tell anyone else about this?"

"I'd say it depends on the job you do."

"I always send my customers home happy," Aurelio said, snatching the coins out of his hand. "That must be a really fucking special juicer."

"It is," Marcus said, movements almost reverent as he handed it to Aurelio.

"I'll call you when it's ready."

"Nice doing business with you."

"Yeah, we'll see."

Aurelio made a mental note to call John later and tell him he owed him a beer. And also tell him not to recommend him to anymore of his crazy ass friends.

\--

"Marcus," Viggo called out, taking off his hat and handing it to Avi. He waited, listening for the sound of footsteps before he shrugged his coat off.

Marcus greeted them from halfway up the stairs, dressed in a bathrobe and slippers despite it being four in the afternoon. He looked unsurprised to see them. "Viggo."

Viggo inclined his head. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."

"No you don't." Marcus made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh. Something about his expression was a bit more strained than usual, the corners of his mouth tense. "What do you want?"

Viggo arched an eyebrow. "I have a job that I was hoping you could help me with."

"How much?" Marcus didn't move from his place on the stairs. Or bother inviting them further inside.

"One million. Closed contract--I thought I'd give you the first shot at it." 

Marcus made a soft noise that half-heartedly acknowledged Viggo's attempt at a joke and frowned. "When and where?"

"Krakow. I would need you to leave tonight. I'd like it done as soon as possible." Viggo waited for the tell-tale shift of Marcus's shoulders, the way they relaxed just before he agreed to whatever Viggo was asking of him. 

It never came. Instead, Marcus shook his head, back straightening. "I can't."

"You can't?" Viggo didn't bother trying to keep the surprise out of his voice. Anything over a half million and Marcus was always a sure thing. "You have something more important planned?"

"I'm taking Florence in for a check-up," Marcus said, not looking the least bit apologetic. "Gotta keep her happy so things run smoothly. You know how it is."

Viggo frowned, trying to remember the last time Marcus had brought up the name of anyone who wasn't a target or John. Or when he'd ever brought up anyone that he'd turn down a million dollar job for. "She can't wait a few days?"

"Afraid not. But if you wanted to push things back until Thursday, we might be able to work something out."

Viggo ran down the list of names in his head, weighing the costs of using one of the less-skilled people on the market against waiting for Marcus. He shared a look with Avi, who gave him a slight, unhappy nod, and sighed. "Thursday at the latest. And the price goes down to seven-fifty."

"Eight hundred and it's a deal," Marcus said, looking a bit too pleased with himself.

Viggo narrowed his eyes. "Fine. But I expect a clean job."

"Have I ever given you reason to expect anything less?"

"No. Which is the only reason I'm willing to wait." Viggo's smile was a friendly warning. "This time."

Marcus inclined his head. "Until Thursday, then."

"Until Thursday." Avi handed Viggo his hat. He settled it back on his head at the usual angle, never taking his eyes off Marcus. "I hope this Florence is worth it."

Marcus smiled. "She is."

Viggo turned to Avi once they were outside. "Have you ever heard of this Florence before?"

"No. I had no idea Marcus was even seeing anyone." Avi glanced back at Marcus's door. "I can have someone look into it, if you want."

"I think that would be a good idea." Viggo turned and started toward the car, Avi trailing behind him. "In case this happens again. I wouldn't want it becoming a habit."

\--

"You really know how to keep a lady waiting." Perkins smirked at Marcus as he rounded the top of the stairs, the room lit only by the single lamp that she'd turned on for dramatic effect.

"Ms. Perkins." Marcus looked unsurprised to see her. "I thought you were above doing Viggo's dirty work by now."

"Some of us enjoy getting dirty." She tapped a finger against the butt of her gun, laid out flat against the table.

"He still mad about Milan?"

"And Krakow. And Budapest. And Rio." Perkins shrugged. "And I don't think I'd call it mad. More like jealous of someone else stealing away your attention."

"Really."

"Yeah. Thinks you've got a hot piece distracting you from the job." She propped her elbow on the table and leaned forward, resting her chin against her hand. "He asked me to have a chat with her, let her know how this all works."

She expected Marcus to threaten her back, maybe even go for one of the guns she knew he had hidden beneath his jacket. Instead, he smirked. 

"I can introduce you."

She leaned back in her chair, frowning. "If you want to make it easy, sure."

Marcus motioned her toward the kitchen; she waited for him to move first before she picked her gun up off the table and followed. There was a large part of her that thought it had to be some sort of trap, but she was too curious not to see what the hell was going on. Besides, she could take him if it came down to it. Snipers weren't generally known for their hand-to-hand combat skills.

She paused in the doorway to the kitchen to do a quick sweep of the room, finding it just as empty as it had been when she'd checked it over an hour ago. "Is this your idea of a joke?"

"I don't joke," he said, Marcus leaning up against the counter with a knowing look. "Florence," he said to the otherwise empty room, "this is Perkins."

Perkins frowned and checked the corners of the room again, tightening her grip on her gun. 

Marcus motioned at the chrome and plastic monstrosity resting on the counter beside his elbow, the kind of overpriced thing owned by people who either gave a shit about food or spent a lot of time and money trying to give off that impression. "Ms. Perkins, this is Florence."

"You're shitting me."

"Afraid not."

She motioned at the blender with her gun. "That's Florence?"

Marcus nodded.

"So, Viggo obviously doesn't know you've been blowing him off for a blender, then."

"A juicer, actually." Marcus shrugged. "You going to set him straight?"

"He's not paying me enough for that." 

"Remind me never to hire you."

"You couldn't afford me," she said, crossing the room to stand between Marcus and the juicer; she refused to refer to it as Florence even in her own head, because that was fucking crazy. "Right, well, I came here to do a job, so." 

Marcus watched her quizzically, tensing slightly as she lifted her gun, aiming it at the body of the juicer. If she got shot over a uselessly nice home appliance, she was asking Viggo for a raise. 

She leaned in toward the juicer and said in a moderately threatening voice, "My boss is unhappy with you taking up Marcus's time. Knock it off, or I'll come back and cut pieces of your cord off and send them to Marcus in the mail."

"You feel better?"

"What do you think?" She lowered her gun. "There, I did my job. Have fun with your blender. I'm going to go have a drink with actual human beings."

"It's a juicer," Marcus called after her as she left.

\--

"Welcome back to the Continental, sir." Charon offered Marcus a smile that was slightly less guarded than his usual. "It's been some time since we've seen you."

"I've been busy." Marcus set one of his bags at his feet and the other on the desk, sliding it toward Charon almost gingerly. "Can you this up for me?"

"Of course."

"I appreciate it." Marcus laid a coin on the counter and turned just in time to see Viggo crossing the lobby, wearing a dangerously friendly expression. John was a few steps behind him, expression carefully neutral.

"Marcus, what a surprise. I didn't expect to see you here."

"Yeah, what a coincidence, running into each other like this." Marcus smiled sharply. "I thought you didn't like slumming it with the hired help."

Viggo laughed, the sound surprisingly sincere. "You know I consider you more than hired help, Marcus."

"I know," Marcus said, glancing at John. "So, what brings you here?"

"Business." Viggo shrugged noncommittally, glancing at the bag on the counter, and then down at the second bag on the floor. "And you?"

"Less business, more pleasure."

"Another night out with your lady friend? What was her name again?" 

"Florence."

"Yes, Florence." Viggo made a show of looking around the lobby. "You should introduce us. Before I start to think that she doesn't exist."

"Oh, she's real enough. Just ask John." Marcus ignored the weight of John's stare and turned his attention back to Charon. "How's that room coming along?"

"It's already ready, sir." Charon handed him a pair of keys and rested a hand against the bag on the desk. "I'll see that this is put in the usual place."

"Thanks." Marcus slipped the keys in his pocket and picked up his other bag from the floor. "Let Winston know we're ready to share a drink whenever he is."

Charon nodded. "I will. He's been looking forward to it."

Marcus gave Charon a slight wave, leaving Viggo and John standing at the front desk, Viggo watching Charon carefully. 

"So, Winston knows Florence?"

"Oh yes. She and Marcus come by at least once a month to share a drink with him." Charon glanced down at his computer screen. "Will you be needing rooms for yourself and Mr. Wick this evening?"

Viggo shook his head, expression thoughtful. "No. We were just going to use the lounge."

Charon inclined his head. "Enjoy your evening, sir. I hope your meeting goes well."

"Thank you." Viggo smiled half-heartedly and turned away. 

"You, too, Mr. Wick," Charon added, voice low as he offered John a faint smile. "I'll see to it that someone brings you a drink. On the house."

"Thanks." John gave Charon a quick, appreciative look before he followed Viggo into the lounge.

\--

Winston sipped his martini and watched Marcus fiddle with his juicer, doing his best not to watch the liquid in the container beneath it turn a dull, unappealing brown. "You know I can just buy one of those and have it kept here for you. In the kitchen."

Marcus pushed a beet into the machine, raising his voice over the noise. "Where's the fun in that?"

"Where indeed." Winston took another drink, watching as Marcus eyed the juice, nodded to himself, and then poured himself a glass. He took a seat across from Winston, looking far too happy to be holding a glass of something the same color as the water after he had the hotel's carpeting steam cleaned.

Marcus caught him staring and arched an eyebrow. "I can make you one of your own, you know."

"You do that and you'll find yourself _excommunicado_." Winston smiled. "You know you can't expect me to just politely drink whatever you put in front of me. I'm not Jonathan."

"He was never polite about it. And he stopped drinking any of it after the first half a dozen or so times."

"Really? Maybe there's hope for him after all." 

"There just might be." Marcus lifted his glass, toasting the empty air, and took a drink. "He'll learn eventually."

"Perhaps he will." Winston made a thoughtful noise. "And what about Mr. Tarasov? Are you ever going to tell him the truth about your _paramour_?"

Marcus glanced at Florence and shook his head. "No, I think I'll let him work this one out for himself. Or wait for John to tell him."

"That may be quite the wait."

"Maybe," Marcus said, sipping his juice.


End file.
